


muscle memory

by honestground



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: All of the clichés, Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, First Time, Forbidden love????, So many clichés wow, Vaginal Sex, in hell, never thought this game would fuck me up like this, yet here I AM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 04:39:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10632381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honestground/pseuds/honestground
Summary: Perhaps the heart remembers what the mind forgot.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The first time BotW!Zelink fic that absolutely nobody asked for
> 
> I needed to get this out of my system and frankly I'm sick of looking at it okay just take it

It’s near midnight, on the eve of Princess Zelda’s seventeenth birthday, and if Link knows the princess, he knows she’s no closer to sleeping than he is.

She’s probably been at her desk all evening, poring over ancient texts, trying to get a head start on whatever knowledge she might glean at the Spring of Wisdom. While he hopes she might be getting some rest, he knows that she hasn’t truly rested for the better part of a decade. Even now, she’s more than likely lying awake, staring up at the canopy of her bed, agonizing over what might happen tomorrow—or, rather, what might not.

Link knows this won’t ease her worries, but it might take her mind off them, if only briefly. He shifts his precious cargo to one hand and knocks once, quietly, almost immediately hearing the rustle of fabric and the patter of bare feet as she crosses the room. 

Zelda opens the door by barely a crack, peering through to confirm it’s him, then opens it all the way, and he can see immediately that she was still wide awake. She seems mystified, though not displeased, at his impromptu visit, and her thin silk robe does nothing to shield her from the cold air in the hallway, so she draws her arms around herself, shivering.

“Link, what—” her gaze shifts to his hands, to what he has brought her: a platter bearing a small, white-frosted cake covered in berries, with a single candle burning in the centre, casting a soft glow on her heart-shaped face. She finds his eyes again, suddenly alight with joy. “How did you know?”

Link shrugs, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I listen.”

Zelda barely needs to stretch onto her toes to kiss him, chaste but sincere, and ushers him quickly inside lest they be seen. She locks the door behind them and putters around her room, haphazardly tidying, stammering apologies for the mess. She straightens out her bedspread and sits, legs folded beneath her, looking at him expectantly when he doesn’t immediately follow, and Link hesitates a little, because this goes against protocol, but every other horizontal surface is strewn with books and parchment, and the Gods know that Princess Zelda has never been one to follow protocol, anyway. And never mind that he’s been stealing kisses for months, now.

He sits next to her, one foot significantly still on the floor, carefully setting the cake down between them. He offers her the small knife he brought with him and tells her to make a wish. Zelda’s eyes close and her brow furrows, and Link doesn’t miss the way her hands twitch, to instinctively join in prayer, but then her eyes open and she blows out the tiny flame, and her despondent expression is telling enough that he doesn’t ask what she wished for.

Zelda cuts the small cake cleanly and all but expires of delight at her first taste, and Link can’t fight the satisfied grin off his face. While she eats her slice slowly, savoring every bite, Link devours his piece like he hasn’t eaten in days, but it makes Zelda smile, makes her reach out to wipe a smear of frosting from the corner of his mouth, and he savors the sound of her laugh instead.

He’s moved the cake to her side table and is dusting crumbs from her bedspread when they hear the bells chime over the steeple, and they both freeze, Link looking over at Zelda as she stares down into her lap, counting. Link covers her hand with his, lacing their fingers together, and waits for the twelfth chime to ring out before he speaks. “Happy birthday.”

When Zelda leans over and kisses him, she tastes like berries and frosting and sweetness, and Link curls his free hand into her hair at the base of her neck, holds her there and breathes her in. These kisses are a far cry from the first one they shared, all those months ago on Hyrule Field—still exhilarating, still fervent, but there is a sense of familiarity to them now. But then, Zelda has always felt somehow familiar to Link.

Zelda tilts her head, presses harder, fingers grasping front of Link’s tunic to drag him closer, making a soft, earnest noise in the back of her throat, and he hesitates, gently takes her wrists and draws back slightly. Her breath flutters, and her cheeks have a slight flush to them, and Link has to force himself to breathe. He says, “I should go.”

Zelda holds fast to his shirt, gaze fixed somewhere between his collarbones, as if lost in thought. Eventually, she says, “I must ask something difficult of you.”

Link nods, waiting. He wonders if she’s going to ask him to help her run away, to flee the kingdom and her father and her fate—but then she meets his eyes, fragments of blues and greens, beautiful and determined and frightening, and he knows, suddenly, that she’s not running.

 “If you would consent to lie with me tonight,” she says, “I would like to have you.”

And Link thinks his heart must have stopped, the pit of his stomach going into freefall and heat spreading through his limbs. Zelda is radiant in the candlelight, hair a golden halo, the pale skin of her throat soft and enticing. He has imagined—to deny it would brand him a liar—what it would be like to have her, to hold her warm and bare against him while he took her, but his duty, his own moral bindings, his promises to her, to her father, and to the kingdom, dictate that he refuse. 

He wants to ask _why me?_ and _why tonight?_ though he already knows the answers, and knows that they’re inconsequential anyway. If this were a clash of wills she would always thwart him, and when it comes to love and war, this is one battle he knows he will surrender to her, a fight he’s prepared to lose.

He would lay down his life for her in a heartbeat, would follow her orders to the ends of the earth without a second thought, but _this_ …

When he doesn’t respond immediately, Zelda reads his features carefully, lips pressed in a thin line and eyebrows knitted. “Everything hinges on what happens tomorrow, when I travel to the Spring of Wisdom,“ she says quietly, confirming what he already knows. “We may never have another chance.”

And Link knows not to reassure her—that telling her of his unwavering faith in her would only add to her mounting self-doubt. He knows that the kingdom is near-damned if the Goddess does not hear her prayers, but he sees her strength and her courage, and he knows that she will, in time, gain access to the power that is her birthright, in her blood.

 _And when she does?_ Link thinks. When they vanquish the Calamity, he will certainly be honored, heralded as a hero, but would he still have this? When the threat of evil has been defeated, would she still be his charge? Would he be allowed to spend his days with her, chasing every smile and laugh she graces him? Would she still gaze at him through lowered lashes in the candlelight? Would they have another chance?

No. He would return to the barracks and she to her throne. A princess does not marry a knight.

“I don’t want you to do something you might regret,” he whispers.

“If I live to regret it,” Zelda says, “at least I lived.” She shifts ever closer, tilts her head so that their noses brush, expectant, and when she next speaks he can feel her lips barely graze his. “I have denied myself too many pleasures over the years to deny myself this.”

These words are his undoing, to hear it so plainly that she desires him in the same way he desires her. He hadn’t dared to hope for this, refused to give thought to it, but from the moment her lips touched his he’d known that he belonged to her or he belonged to no-one, that he would give her the world and so he would give her this, and so Link’s hand finds her hair again, his self-restraint teetering on the edge of a deep, dark precipice. He breathes, “Zelda…”

He feels her smile, and her laugh of relief lights a fire in his chest. “You said my name,” she says, and he knows that he’s gone, that he had never even had a chance of winning this battle, and he closes the distance and kisses her.

It’s different this time; all uncertainty gone, her kisses are maddening, open-mouthed and searing. She kisses him thoroughly, methodically, like she does with everything she sets her mind to, and Link allows himself to lose himself in it, moans low and soft from somewhere deep in his chest. Zelda echoes it, kissing him desperately and pulling him closer, mumbling, “Clothes,” against his mouth.

When they remove Link’s tunic together, his head briefly sticks, making them both laugh, and for a moment they’re just two fumbling, excited teenagers, not a hero and a princess, no weight of destiny upon them. Link grins, dropping his tunic over the edge of the bed and smoothing down his tousled hair, and ducks his head to kiss her right where her earlobe meets her neck.

Zelda sighs, running her hands over the planes of his chest. “I’ve wanted this for a really long time.”

“This?” Link says, breath tickling her ear.

“You,” Zelda amends. “Wanted you.”

He captures her mouth with his again, and somewhere between kisses he becomes acutely aware of her slipping her robe off her shoulders. He remembers with perfect clarity the first time he’d seen her dressed in white, soaking wet and freezing from her submersion in the Spring of Courage, and how he had wanted nothing more than to reach for her, touch her, to keep her warm. It would have been obscene—blasphemous, in such a sacred place—but here in her chambers, Zelda shivers despite the warm air, so Link feels entirely justified in running his hands down her arms, warming her, and it feels like less of a sin.

She discards her robe, and Link sheds the rest of his clothing without much fanfare, but then Zelda grasps the hem of her silk nightgown and lifts it over her head. If there were ever a possibility that she might not carry the blood of the goddess Hylia, any doubt is cast from Link’s mind as the garment slips from the bed and to the floor. He sucks in a long breath, enthralled by the glow of her skin, the rosiness of her nipples, and she runs her hands down his chest and stomach, fascinated, before she pulls him down onto the bed.

“Touch me,” Zelda whispers, and Link does so with reverence, as if afraid he might break her. His hands roam down her sides, over the slope of her waist and the curve of her hips and when she guides his hand and arches her back so that her breast fills his palm he thinks he might burst into flames. He kisses her like a man starved of oxygen, drags his tongue down her neck, rolls a nipple between thumb and forefinger, and relishes in her resulting sigh.

Her shaking hands venture lower, wrapping her fingers tentatively around him. Link pushes his hips helplessly against her touch, so she shifts closer so her chest is flush against his, and the slide of skin-on-skin is a relief, but it isn’t enough anymore. Their kisses have long since turned messy, breaths and moans mingling, and when Link shifts on top of her for better leverage, curious fingers dipping between her legs to find her yielding and wet and impossibly warm, Zelda whines against his mouth. “Link— _please_.”

They pause, breath bated and hearts beating hard as Link hovers carefully between her parted legs. Zelda curls her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, trembling with anticipation and nerves. He waits for her singular nod of assent, and then, mouth dry, he reaches down to guide himself to her, moving slowly into her as gently as he can muster.

She inhales sharply and makes a soft noise, from pain or discomfort he isn’t sure, and he drops his head to press kisses into the spot just below her ear, murmuring apologies against her skin. Zelda shifts experimentally beneath him, and they both gasp in unison this time, overwhelmed with so much of each other, sparking something _good_ , a primal need for _more_ , and Zelda hisses through her teeth and drags Link down by his hair. She puts her mouth against his ear and says, “ _Move_.”

It’s a little muddled at first, fumbling and awkward and new, until Link—acting off instinct, or some half-remembered dream—drags his hand over Zelda’s thigh so that her leg hooks higher over his hip and grinds down in careful, slow movements. He angles himself in such a way that he brushes against _something_ that makes Zelda clutch blindly at his shoulders, makes her arch her back and tremble. She wraps her legs tighter around his waist, digging her heels into his lower back to encourage him, and Link’s resolve falters a little, groaning long and low against Zelda’s neck, stilling his hips and trembling with the effort.

He feels Zelda’s hands on his neck, fingers stroking the line of his jaw, and he meets her eyes, seeing a softness and warmth he doesn’t dare name—and tears, he realizes. “Am I hurting you?” Link asks, moving to withdraw. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” Zelda shakes her head, crosses her ankles at the base of his spine to keep him there. “It’s perfect—you’re perfect, it’s just—” She inhales a shaky breath, closing her eyes in an attempt to stop the tears from escaping, but one slips down her cheek anyway. “I just wish we had more time.”

Link shifts his weight onto one forearm so as to bring his other hand up and brush away her tears with his thumb. He wants to tell her: he wants to explain the rush of heat he feels when he grasps the sword, to describe the disjointed flashes of unfamiliar memories in his mind, traces of lifetimes past. Instead, he cups her chin and kisses her soundly, tasting salt, bittersweet. “We will,” he says quietly, “I promise.”

Zelda kisses him again, languid and melting-warm, and Link braces himself on his arm and curls his free hand over her hip, pushing into her again in one careful, measured movement, and she throws her head back with soft cry. Link drags his teeth gently down the column of her pale throat, his ministrations deliberate and unhurried, _agonizingly_ shallow, trying to coax that noise from her again.

He watches her for every change in expression, listens for every gasp and mewl that might grace his ears, and she drags his face down to moan brokenly, panting open-mouthed against his lips, and Link breathes it all in. Zelda moves with him now, pushing back against his thrusts, fingernails leaving white crescents where she clutches his back and sides, and when she bites down hard, right where his shoulder meets his neck, the primal noise that escapes Link’s throat is nothing short of obscene. His movements hasten, grinding and gnashing-harsh, fingers bruising and pressure building, whispering disjointed words of encouragement as Zelda’s breathing quickens, her fractured cries keen and desperate.

Suddenly, Zelda’s whole body thrums like a bowstring pulled taut, and she chokes out, “Slow down— _slow down_ ,” so Link does, driving forward deep and deliberate, Zelda’s whines increasing with each thrust, until her back arches clear off the bed, clutching the blankets as she cries out, half-sobbing from sheer relief. Link’s hips stutter and he hurries to withdraw, unwilling to befoul her in such a way, but she locks her legs around his waist, whimpers, “No— _stay—please—_ ”

So Link sinks into her once more with finality, orgasm like a wave cresting and breaking in his head, covering her body with his own and gasping her name, desperate and broken against her skin.

They lie still for a few moments, breaths heaving and hearts hammering, and then Link lifts his head with some difficulty to find Zelda smiling at him, delicate and sated. Link implores his own memory to preserve this moment, kissing her tenderly as her fingers rake through his sweaty hair. She makes a quiet, wistful noise as he withdraws from her, and he kisses a wordless apology into her shoulder, curling his body around her and pulling up the blankets to cover them both.

Zelda extinguishes the candles and they lie in the dark, her back flush against Link’s chest and his nose buried in her hair. He remembers, dimly, that it’s well past midnight by now—they travel to Mt. Lanayru in the morning, in just a few hours. He asks, softly, “Should I leave?”

Zelda ponders the question briefly, then takes the hand draped over her waist, drawing it towards her mouth to kiss his knuckles, intertwining their fingers. “No. I would like to have this for a while longer,” she murmurs, and she settles down into her pillows and more comfortably against him to sleep. After a beat of silence, she says, quiet and melancholic, “It’s my birthday.”

He wishes that there was more he could do to soothe her fears, to shift the great weight that rests upon her shoulders, but for now, all he can do is hold her close, steady and sure, willing her to believe in herself in the way that he does: constantly, unfailingly. There is no certainty for what will happen tomorrow, but Link has faith, and he knows that whatever happens, however unthinkable the consequences might be, he will still be there.

And for now, they have this.

So Link sleeps.

* * *

A crash of thunder startles Link awake.

He had been over halfway up a mountain when the rain had started. The surface of the rocks rendered too slippery and unsafe to climb, he’d luckily come upon a small cave, had lit a fire and wrung out his wet clothes, then evidently dozed off with the sword laid across his lap. He looks toward the cave entrance, toward Hyrule Castle, still a black mass of smoke and ash juxtaposed against the flash of lightning that lights up the night sky.

He’s agitated and feverish, still-damp clothing uncomfortably constricting, and he palms himself roughly through the linen of his trousers, telling himself it was just another dream. Even with his limited memories of before his awakening, he can’t imagine that he ever had time for romance or intimacy with anybody, let alone the Princess, of all people. It was certainly odd that his subconscious could construct such visions in such clarity, but then he supposes he’s been alone for a long time. Perhaps too long.  
  
And so has she, he realizes, looking toward the dark shadow of the castle again with a frown. What has she been doing all this time? Fighting, pouring every ounce of her being into keeping the Calamity at bay? Was she asleep, like he had been, or conscious and aware, trapped with only memories to sustain her, waiting for him?

He feels, deep in his chest, an ache he can’t quite name, an unmistakable longing for her, this girl he only knows from memories that still don’t quite feel like his own, like half-remembered dreams. Nevertheless, he can’t seem to fight this instinct, this unshakeable impulse to protect her, the need to be near her, and so Link allows it to drive him. Perhaps, one day, when it’s all over, he’ll find out what it means. Perhaps the heart remembers what the mind forgot.

Outside the cave, the rain shows no indication of slowing, and Link considers packing up and resuming his climb, taking his chances. But the cave is warm, and he’s comfortable, and he has visions of golden hair and blue-green eyes to carry him through the night, and so instead he stokes the dying fire awake, shrugging down into his tunic and settling himself against the wall.

It would be morning soon. For now, he would wait out the storm.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting on here, so if I need to tag anything specific just let me know.
> 
> Edit: Also cross-posted to my shippy bullshit dump, honestground.tumblr.com cos apparently people actually like this?? Incredible.


End file.
